


Ex Post Facto

by greenpen



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenpen/pseuds/greenpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could have been him, yes, and that’s not why he’s angry. He tells himself it’s not and he actually believes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ex Post Facto

There was a part of her that wanted it to be true, for him to be real, materialized in front of her almost like nothing had changed, almost like the past two years hadn’t happened. They are back in Washington and she is younger, softer. He is younger, too, war hasn’t hardened him into the single steel point that’s actually standing right in front of her, at this moment. 

“Hold still,” he says. 

“Ahh.” She winces. It hurts. 

“Hold _still_ ,” he says again. He’s getting irritated.

She’s quiet and wills herself not to move, summons all her energy into remaining motionless. 

He picks up the tweezers from beside her and angles them near her brow. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, alarmed. 

“There’s a splinter.” 

“Be careful,” she says, on instinct. She’s so used to being on watch all the time. Not around him. 

He breaks his gaze and looks at her. 

“I’ve seen a lot worse, Carrie.” 

She doesn’t say anything, matches his stare as if to say, _Well it’s my face._  

He returns a look, inscrutable, like always. 

She shuts her eyes then, not wanting to look. Not look at him. Not look at him pulling a splinter from her forehead. 

“There,” he says finally, and she’s amazed she doesn't feel anything. He begins to swab at it with disinfectant and then prepare a bandaid. 

She grips the side of the chair she’s sitting on, white knuckles. 

“See? All done.” 

She brings a hand up to her eye and tentatively dabs at it, feeling how it hurts, the skin slightly raised. 

He rises and packs the gauze and supplies into a small toolbox, stuffing them onto a shelf across the room. 

“Thanks,” she says. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says coolly. 

She turns, away from him, feeling suddenly self-conscious. 

He looks over, sees her, back to him, running her hand over her knee, wondering why he feels like the wronged one. 

“Do you have any water?” she asks then, startling him. 

It’s hot in the room, sweat starting to bead on her neck.

He points to the faucet a few paces away from her. She eyes it, eyes him, then walks over. 

She turns on the water, runs her fingers under until it’s cold, then angles her head sideways to position her mouth below the tap. 

He almost wants to smile—it’s such a perfectly _her_ thing to do—but stops himself. 

She turns the water off and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“Wanna tell me why I’m here?” she asks then, speaking the unspoken. 

“How much do you know already?” he asks. 

“I know about the data breach. I know about the names leaked. I know Saul is in Berlin.” 

“So everything?” he says. 

She can’t tell if he’s lying. That can’t be everything, because she’s still confused. 

“Why are you here?” she asks. 

He’s silent. He wipes his hands on a towel. 

“Do you know the men who grabbed me?” 

He looks at her and she can tell the answer is yes, but why won’t he just say it? He’s staring at his hands now like they hold all the answers he can’t say himself.  

“Have you been following me?” 

Nothing, still. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Quinn.”  

“Save it. If it wasn’t for me you’d be dead right now.” 

“You sure think highly of yourself.” 

“I’d say the same about you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Don’t act like you’re above it.” 

“Above what?” 

“If I’m not mistaken the father of your kid is someone you illegally surveilled for a few months before fucking. We both know he wasn’t the first,” he says, voice dripping with vitriol. “Or the last.” 

She inhales. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Right back at you,” he spats. 

“You know, I thought about this moment endlessly for the past two years. I thought about what I’d say once I finally saw you again. And God knows I never imagined they’d be under these circumstances, but I always knew I’d see you again. I always knew you were alive, even if you showed little care about making that known to anyone else in your life.” 

“What’s done is done.” 

She continues, as if she didn’t hear him. “You _left_. Without a single word. Without a phone call. Nothing. You just… disappeared.” 

He’s studying his hands this entire time, furrowing his brow at them as if he’s having the conversation with them, and not her. 

“Why?” 

“Why what?” He looks up finally.

“Why did you leave? Last I heard you wanted to get out. Next thing I know you’re in fucking Syria fighting insurgents?!” 

“My team needed me.” 

There is something unspoken in that, something that stings her a little, because she needed him too and he was nowhere. She can’t grasp this, his loyalty to “the group.” The Quinn she knows works alone, no keeper. It’s almost beyond her comprehension that he could hold allegiance to anyone other than her. 

“And anyway it’s not like you were too hurt anyway.” 

“Well we can’t all lick our wounds forever. Some of us have to be adults.” 

He stares her down at that. She still knows how to goad him. She knows what hurts, what blows to strike. 

“Well I’m happy for you and your boyfriend. You seem really happy eating picnics and going to birthday parties.” 

Her stomach turns thinking about him watching her from long-range binoculars. She wonders what he’s seen, and how much. She feels embarrassed, almost, like she hasn’t lived up to his expectations, like she’s living a lie he can see through. It feels ridiculous just thinking it, but it creeps through. The thought creeps through, the idea takes form in her brain. 

It could have been him, yes, and that’s not why he’s angry. He tells himself it’s not and he actually believes it.  

It’s her. It’s seeing her happy and fulfilled, when he feels so much the opposite, so empty and bitter and broken. It’s not the man. It’s her and it always has been. 

“You can go,” he says finally. He’s begun cleaning his weapons, taking them apart and putting them back together again. 

She swallows, wanting to get the last word in but not knowing what to say. She wants to tell him she looked for him, for months, to no avail, roadblocks everywhere, nobody helping. 

She wants to tell him that she forgot about him, in the way you’re supposed to, in the way that made her miss him more. 

She wants to tell him that she is here, to help, if he wants it. She can’t offer him this, but she’d oblige, if he asked. She knows he won’t. The promise feels empty. 

She wants to tell him she _is_ happy, that he could be too if he’d gather the courage to tell everyone at the Company to fuck off and never look back. She wants to tell him that he’d be good at it, that he has what it takes. 

She just stands there instead, still, lifeless again. She is out of practice and so says none of these things. 

“You going?” he says. 

She wipes the hair from her face. She’s sweating still, it’s stuck to her cheek. 

She heads for the door. 

After all this time she can’t believe she just gets to walk out. Nothing is turning out the way she’d imagined. 

“You know,” she says, hand on the doorknob. “It doesn’t have to be so hard. It really doesn’t.” 

He maintains his focus, cleaning the gauge, rhythmic motions, fixed concentration. He hears the door shut behind her and her footsteps that follow, her purposeful gait. He feels his stomach unclench as the distance grows greater. 

Soon he can hear the din of cars and construction in the background, something he only just noticed.  But there’s no spell this time. He almost feels nothing. Just numbness. 

She goes back to her world, and he to his. 

He cleans the barrel, smooth exit. If all goes well, silent and quick, just a few seconds, then blackness. 


End file.
